


Dim the Lights

by Captain_Loki



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kisses, Fluff, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-12 22:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: Some would say Crowley had gone native, that he just liked the sunglasses as a statement, an aesthetic, but Aziraphale new the reason Crowley wore his shades even when it wasn’t warranted.





	Dim the Lights

Some would say Crowley had gone native, that he just _liked _the sunglasses as a statement, an aesthetic, but Aziraphale new the reason Crowley wore his shades even when it wasn’t warranted.

Aziraphale has never mentioned it, of course, he expects Crowley would be less than amenable to it. It’s the reason he sees Crowley duck his gaze away from his own reflection, a momentary look that Aziraphale can’t identify, but there’s hurt there in his golden eyes and the soft twitch of his brow. 

It’s also the reason Aziraphale’s heart seems to beat faster in his chest when they slip behind closed doors and Crowley pulls his glasses off and tucks them away so casually, like he hadn’t even considered hiding.  


Aziraphale has also never mentioned how absolutely captivating they are, how he could indulge in them as he could on any decadent meal. He’s not sure how Crowley would react to _that. _

Aziraphale plans on mentioning none of this, but then one evening they’re back at the bookshop drinking, not to get drunk, but to share a bottle of red wine and company. They’re sitting on the small sofa together and Crowley is sprawled like a cat across more than just his half. 

Crowley has been staring off into space, either deep in thought or entirely empty of them. This has given Aziraphale ample opportunity to take his fill of Crowley’s naked, unguarded eyes. 

The flames of the candlelight around them flickers in his pupils and makes them shimmer. _Crowley_ may be buzzed but Aziraphale knows _he _is, it clouds his head and slows his reflexes and he’s caught staring. 

Caught enough times that Crowley starts to avoid his gaze, fidgets with the sunglasses Aziraphale knows are tucked away in his inner jacket pocket. Aziraphale has grown too used to this corporation and he inhales sharply. 

He rushes out a stuttered apology, “oh-dear. I’m sorry, Crowley.” He laughs nervously, “I guess I’ve had one glass too many, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley doesn’t look at him and Aziraphale follows his gaze to the small antique mirror he has hung on the wall opposite. Crowley’s eyes seem to glow a little other worldly.

“I didn’t mean to stare, I just--” Aziraphale clears his throat.  


“S’okay,” Crowley says, waving a hand and throwing his hands behind his head, tone suggesting that it’s anything but. “Always something fascinating about the horrific. Like watching a train crash.”  


The breath Aziraphale lets out this time feels like the gasping choke he felt after being punched in the gut by those he trusted. This is worse. 

“No.” It’s not a tone Aziraphale uses often, and he doesn’t think _ever _around Crowley. It’s a voice that bleeds into the ether, into the dimensions that are unseen and untouched by humans. The celestial plane that fits his true form, his many aspects, like an aura all around him. It is Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate.

Aziraphale rises from the couch.

Crowley tenses visibly, his eyes going wide enough Aziraphale can see the whites of his sclera. He sees a momentary look of fear there before Crowley masks it in a look of too deliberate an indifference.

Aziraphale deflates, “Crowley, I would without hesitation, smite _anyone _who had the--the--audacity to speak to you in such a way. So, you’ll find I’m quite conflicted,” Aziraphale tells him, pointedly, nervously.

They make eye contact, and after a short moment passes, Crowley’s face splits into a wide grin and he _laughs_. 

“I _could_ you know!” Aziraphale shouts indignantly, feeling his face heat.   


“With _what_,” Crowley manages to get out, “you gave away your flaming sword!” Crowley’s clutching at his side.   


“You need not remind me of that whole debacle,” Aziraphale admonishes, “though that thing did make quite the rounds, didn’t it?” Aziraphale rings his hands together.   


“You got it back, in the end, though, sort of fitting,” Crowley’s amusement has faded into something more fond, but he would never say it.   


“Besides,” Aziraphale says, dropping down once more onto the couch beside Crowley, maybe a little closer than he had been before. “I think your eyes are _lovely_.”   


Crowley makes a scoffing noise and straightens slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I mean that, Crowley,” Aziraphale tries to capture his gaze. 

Crowley finally looks over and meets his eyes.  


“I don’t remember what my eyes looked like,” Crowley says, voice barely more than a raspy whisper, “before, I mean.”  


“How do you know they even changed?” Aziraphale questions. The look Crowley gives him speaks louder than words. 

“They’re the eyes of a _creature, _angel,” Crowley argues. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for a moment. 

“Crowley,” he starts finally, careful, “why do you assume that you have those eyes because they belong to a _snake_, and not the other way around?”

He pauses for a moment, but Crowley doesn’t answer, “perhaps, snakes have _your _eyes. You did, after all, come first.”  


“Shouldn’t see why it would matter either way,” Crowley says.  


“Maybe God let the snake of Eden keep part of it’s divinity.” Aziraphale smiles at Crowley in what he hopes is a reassuring way. Crowley’s face floods with color and he looks like he wants to tell Aziraphale to shut up again. 

“Besides, I _certainly _don’t think I would have fallen in love with your eyes if they had been the soulless empty void of any other demon.”  


“You fell in love with...my eyes, in Eden?” Crowley asks tensing on the seat beside him. Aziraphale knows the question he’s not asking.   


“The--the rest came later, I daresay,” his voice is soft and sheepish, “but, yes, it started with your eyes,” Aziraphale manages, face heating, avoiding those eyes now. “They were quite _alluring, _and kind, and when you looked at me after I told you I had given away the sword--well--no one’s ever looked at me like that.”  


“That was the moment I fell in love with you,” Crowley says, matter of fact.   


“I think I knew, at least that you were different,” Aziraphale admits. “I can sense love, after all, but you were a demon and I thought, surely I must be projecting. Except, we kept seeing each other and each time I thought, this time he will reveal his true self, the demonic side, the evil.”

Crowley looks like he’s going to argue but Aziraphale cuts him off, “but you just kept surprising me. And really, I had no idea I was in love with you, too.” Crowley’s leg seems to spasm and then it’s pressed against his own, they’re sitting so very close. 

“Not until you walked down that church aisle,” both of their eyes widen and Aziraphale coughs and Crowley looks away. “When you rescued my books”. 

“You had done kind things for me before but that was the first time it wasn’t really _necessary_. Rescuing me from a discorporation is one thing but you could have _gloated _over the books. You’re a _demon_, even the Gabriel would have, just to mock me,” Aziraphale’s face is a little sad.  


“Angel,” Crowley starts, sounding uncertain, but Aziraphale blunders on.  


“Oh, and then I go and spend centuries playing hard to get--” Crowley huffs a laugh, but doesn’t argue “--downright flirting with you and yet every time you--”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupts.   


“--Yes, love?” Aziraphale stops, leans instinctively towards Crowley, hand landing on his thigh.

Crowley’s voice seems to catch in his throat. “Nnhhg,” he swallows heavily, “angel. If you’re going to apologize for something, don’t,” Crowley’s request feels more like a plea, and Aziraphale pauses and nods softly. 

“Then, I’ll just,” he catches Crowley’s gaze again before reaching over and tentatively taking his left hand. Aziraphale raises it to his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. 

Crowley watches quietly as he does so, hand limp in his. Aziraphale lowers it and pauses for a moment. He thinks perhaps he really _has _had one too many, when he slips the ring off his own pinkie and slips it onto Crowley’s, the band shrinking to fit around his thin finger.

Crowley stares at it, and for a minute Aziraphale feels a blinding panic as Crowley twists it off his pinkie, but he merely slides it over, slipping it onto his ring finger instead. 

Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath. 

“Is this okay?” Crowley asks, voice soft, open and exposed. Its so familiar to Aziraphale now: he never really appreciated his bravery.   


“I would have put it there myself if I wasn’t absolutely terrified of rejection!” Aziraphale lets out a manic sort of chuckle.   


“I have quite _literally _never rejected you, Aziraphale. Not once, in _6,000 _years have I rejected you,” Crowley’s voice is light, and teasing and Aziraphale shushes him with a playful slap to his shoulder.   


“It only took you what, 50 years to finally take me to the Ritz?” Crowley sinks back into the couch and tips his head up to stare at Aziraphale above him.   


“I just--like to really get to know a person before I make that kind of commitment.”   


“6,000 years, angel,” he chastises, letting his eyes slip closed as he relaxes into the cushions. Aziraphale stares down at the ring on Crowley’s hand, there’s a half formed thought in his head when, without opening his eyes, Crowley snaps his fingers and the chain around his neck breaks away melting in the air between them twisting until its formed a solid silver snake to match the ones at Crowley’s temple.   


Crowley is looking at him now, palm open to catch the ring. “Is it okay? I can change it if--”

“No, it’s--” Aziraphale doesn’t know _what _it is, “more than okay, Crowley, it’s perfect.” Crowley has many smiles and smirks and grins. Aziraphale has cataloged them all like treasured possessions. He’s seen this one before in the rubble of a church.  


Crowley slips the ring onto Aziraphale’s finger before taking Aziraphale’s hand, but it’s not to press a delicate kiss there but to pull Aziraphale in hard enough he’s thrown off balance and topples into Crowley’s lap. 

Aziraphale thinks that was quite the point. 

Crowley’s bubbling laughter, chest rising and falling with it beneath Aziraphale’s flailing form is enough to stop his reprove. Instead he rights himself, half draped across Crowley, who looks very smug. 

Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him. Crowley lets out a noise and with a rush of wind and the rustle of feathers Crowley’s wings manifest themselves and they both topple off the couch. 

Crowley looks mortified and he starts to tuck his wings in and Aziraphale grabs his biceps where he’s poised above him. “Don’t?” he makes a whispered request. 

Crowley pauses for a moment and looks at Aziraphale in a way he hasn’t since Eden. Then leans over Aziraphale finding his mouth. Crowley’s wings unfurl just enough to enclose them both in a dark canopy. Aziraphale opens his eyes, and gasps. Above him, Crowley’s wings twinkle with the light of a billion stars, whole galaxies captured in his wings, cradling them both.

Crowley slips his tongue into his open pliant mouth and Aziraphale gives himself over, finally.


End file.
